


If I Didn't Know Better (but damn it, I do)

by rufeepeach



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Darcy Lewis's Taser, F/M, Illusions, Loki Feels, tasertricks - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-02 00:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Loki's illusions seem to malfunction when a particular supposedly-powerless brunette happens by, and Darcy is more than willing to use her taser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Didn't Know Better (but damn it, I do)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ambrosia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrosia/gifts).



> So Val wanted me to write her some tasertricks, and 7000+ words later... she prompted: "Darcy makes Loki's magic act weird' and got this. I hope it suits :D
> 
> Also this is an AU where Darcy was in New York during Avengers, and was taken to Asgard with Jane and Thor in Thor 2

The first time it happens, Loki is too distracted to truly notice.

Thor’s mortal and her friends cower behind him, powerless as Thor himself in his weakened state, and the Destroyer, fuelled by Loki’s own power, closes in.

There’s a spark, a fizzle, a pause in the matrix that could be any number of things. Sif had just plunged a sword into its head, and Thor is a thundering presence all on his own – a pun Loki finds abominable even in his own mind – and that many Asgardians in one Midgardian street is bound to cause some anomalies.

He doesn’t even consider the mortals. They’re simple, mindless cannon fodder. Thor is the target; Sif and the Warriors Three are perhaps unfortunate casualties.

He wonders idly, as the battle rages on, which of the mortals is the one Thor most desperately protects. For he knows there is one, he has watched closely enough to know that much. There are two brunettes, both more delicate than Sif or Frigga, than the powerful warrior-women of Asgard, and that must be the appeal. They’re delicate little creatures, slim and breakable: they must make Thor feel muscle-bound and powerful, even bound and banished and _unworthy_ as he is. 

He only gets a glancing impression: they are of little importance, anyway, for Thor is about to become little more than a splotch on the surface of their petty little world, but he can see fearful eyes and checked gingham on the one, and red lips and an odd strength of stance from the other.

Then another blow is struck, and Thor issues a challenge, and Loki’s attention is drawn back to the battle at hand.

\---

The second time is entirely incidental, but Loki is clever and he can see the patterns that emerge. The illusion he is projecting takes only minimal effort – he has to expend far more of his efforts on simply dodging the Chitauri warships that are flying in the opposite direction between the skyscrapers, but it never hurts to keep the enemy off-balance.

He flies down low to the population below, and sees someone watching from a distance, ready to run. Another flash of red lips, another strong stance, before she lowers the little device she had held up toward him, and starts to run.

His illusions crumble for just a second, as their gazes meet, for just a moment.

But then she keeps running, and he keeps flying, and she was not Thor’s mortal. Thor’s mortal’s name is Jane, the one who had flown to his side when the Destroyer had almost killed him. This one is of no import; if she is here, then Thor cares not enough even to so much as warn her of her proximity.

Still, he recollects Selvig’s thoughts on the matter, and his mention of another woman, Jane’s assistant: Darcy, he thinks the name was. 

Yes, Darcy, the name and face match. He watches her for just a while, as she makes it down into the underground system where the other mortals are sheltering from the destruction. He could chase her, he thinks, and find out why twice now his magic has faltered in her presence. Find out why she is in New York, when he was under the impression that Thor’s mortals had been safely ensconced far from the danger zones.

But she is but one mortal with limited information, and he has other concerns. 

He flies on, and the brunette gets away, and he’ll come back and kill her on the off chance that she survives, and he wins. 

\---

The third time it happens, it’s obvious to all involved.

Asgard is pretty as fuck, Darcy thinks as she walks behind Jane. They’d taken her clothes at some point, somewhere between being jabbed with a pointy thing and Jane having a sciencegasm over the tech they have lying around. The swishy robes they left in return are like cosplay but real, all heavy fabric and big shiny clasps. She resists the urge to spin on the spot, and see if they’ll do that old school Hollywood flare as well.

Darcy’s just taking pics on her iPhone and hoping if she uploads them when she gets home to the land of signal and 3G then Coulson will be cool with it. If he’s not, he can just hack her Facebook account like last time. She has to admit, changing her cover photo to a litter of puppies was a classy touch.

“Hey, do you guys have a bathroom?” she interrupts the Goddess of Awesome Hair in mid-flow – and seriously, does Thor’s mom have magic hair powers, or are curlers just a hundred thousand percent better in this realm? – and Jane shoots her a Look.

Jane spends half her life Looking at Darcy. But it’s okay, cause all Darcy has are brothers who are fun but complete dipshits and didn’t go to college, and need her to get them out of ten kinds of trouble every damn time she visits. Jane’s like a straight-laced older sister, and that’s kind of cool. She’s also easy as hell to embarrass, but Darcy’s working on that. 

“Of course,” Frigga responds, calmly, “back the way we came, down the hall and to the left. Ask one of the guards if you get lost.”

She’s got so much Regal in her bearing that Darcy has to give a wobbly curtsey. She can kinda see where Thor gets it from now, that King of the World striding, all the confidence. Darcy’s not confident like that: she just has a total lack of shame, which is the best way to live in her honest opinion but totally not the same thing. Shamelessness doesn’t conquer realms.

She finds the bathroom no problem, but finding Jane and Frigga again is a whole other issue. Not one she’s throwing her whole weight behind either, to be honest. Darcy’d never been to a legit palace before this year – she’d never been out of the USA before until Jane dragged her ass to London – and the English ones had more wallpaper and corgis and less… shiny gold everywhere. And more tuxedo-wearing asshole butlers on every corner to give her a Look a hundred times worst than Jane’s best effort when she even thought the word ‘Instagram’.

Here the guards don’t even watch her as she passes, too busy looking big and impressive. Like the guards at the Tower of London, she assumes, paid to stand still and do their duty. And Darcy’s shameless but she’s not an asshole: if they’re being paid to stand still then she’ll take one picture and leave them to it. Rather them than her.

Everyone here is pretty and muscled as fuck. Thor’s not even a standout here – new Rapunzel locks notwithstanding, cause damn that boy’s hair looks good all long and flowy, and he might be Jane’s but there’s no harm in looking – everyone could probably bench-press Darcy’s weight no sweat. But they’re all armed to the teeth as well, so she doesn’t stop to find out.

She goes down a few flights of stairs because no one told her not to. It’s probably a bad idea, but so are most other things Darcy decides to do, and she’s not dead yet. Maybe she can even find the special gym that manufactures all the massively ripped warrior dudes. 

Instead, all she finds is a dark room full of gold screens. This place has an unhealthy fixation with gold _everything_ , it seems. The people here aren’t impassive, they’re all snarling, growling, surly assholes, and Darcy’d turn around and walk away if she didn’t see a semi-familiar face at the end of the hall.

This is a goddamn prison. If the space-bikers in the cells beside her didn’t give it away, then the fucking _God of Mischief_ at the end of the hall sure as hell did.

“Hey, Loki!” she shouts. He looks up, turns.

His eyes fix on her, and a look she doesn’t recognise crosses his features. It’s not the disgust she expected, and it’s not contempt, even though he was Mr You-Are-A-Worthless-Mortal to everyone back on earth, and he clearly recognises her. 

But she was in New York, and she saw the carnage. You don’t just walk away from those memories, you know? If you see the guy responsible for that much destruction you don’t just leave him to mope in his overly-cushy cell. You go tell him what you think of him.

Well, you do if your name is Darcy Lewis.

“Selvig’s pet,” he purrs, as she comes closer. Her hands are shaking, she’s so fucking angry she could _scream_. “Come to bait at the monster?”

“I was just wandering around,” she shrugs as she comes to stand in front of him, as if it doesn’t matter at all, as if he’s not Public Enemy Number One back home. “You know, upstairs, where there’re doors and windows and no merciless killers?”

“I see you haven’t met the All-father,” he says, pursing his lips, like this is a fucking _joke_. “Has he threatened your life yet? He does enjoy that, you know.”

“You’re lucky there’s a screen in the way, fuckwad,” she snarls, stepping closer still, unable to help it, hoping maybe the screen’s one way and she can land a solid punch on his jaw. She’s pissed as fuck that they’ve taken her bag away: her brass knuckles were in there, and her Taser, and only Thor knows better than Darcy herself how well a good electroshock works on a Norse God.

“Oh, am I?” he does laugh then, all deep and rich and dangerous. Fuck, he’d be her type if he weren’t a mass-murdering psychopath.

But he is, so he’s not.

“Just ask Thor,” she shrugs her shoulders, “I had him on the floor in ten seconds flat.”

“I am not Thor,” he laughs at her, waves a hand to brush her off like she’s some bug he just found flying by his smirking asshole face.

“Clearly,” Darcy snorts, folding her arms, “Thor’s allowed to go outside and run around with the other kids. You’re locked up down here, grounded for all eternity.”

“How did you get down here?” he asks, curiously, “The way is hidden and guarded, as far as I was aware.”

She frowns, “I just walked down,” she says. “I guess the guards didn’t see me?”

“Interesting,” he purses his lips again, this time in thought, and then he does something with his hand. A perfect replica of her iPhone, still clutched like the weapon she wishes she actually had in her right hand, appears in his.

And then it wavers, flickers, looks a bit like a sceptre with a glowy blue thing on the end for a moment, and vanishes.

“I believe, Darcy Lewis, that _that_ is why you managed to come down here, when none other can without permission,” he smiles, the kind of smile crocodiles smile before they start chowing down on your insides.

“I know how you know my name, y’know” she says, her anger flaring again. It had been dulled slightly because goddamn, fucking perfect bone structure had to run in Thor’s family, and so strong it got passed even to the adopted members, but now it’s back in full force. Eric’s lost his mind because of this asshole. This fucker sucked his brain out like a milkshake, used his body as a human computer, then shoved it all back in the wrong way again when Natasha whacked him on the head.

Eric, the smartest, sweetest guy Darcy’s ever known, Jane’s fucking _father figure_ , is stark raving nutso because Loki decided to play.

And now, now Darcy’s angry again.

“Yes,” Loki replies, all smooth smiles, “your dear friend Dr Selvig told me everything. Tell me, how are your brothers?”

“Not as pissed at me as yours is at you,” she snaps back.

“I’d wager not,” Loki says, “few people have quite the gift for blinding rage that Thor has. He gets that from his father. I thank the heavens every day that mine was more measured.”

“Who, Big Blue?” Darcy snipes back, “The one Jane says you stabbed through the chest that one time? Yeah I bet he was nothing but sunshine and rainbows. I guess being a whacko homicidal maniac runs in the family.” She snorts through her nose, a thought occurring that hadn’t before. “One day, you’ll get out of here, and there’ll be a fucking line to break your jaw and tell you how fucked in the head you are. But since I’m here now, I get to say it first. You’re broken, Loki, there is something wrong with you. One day, maybe someone’ll come along who can fix you. But I really fucking hope not.”

“Why, Darcy?” he asks, sibilant and angry and good, thank god he’s not smirking anymore, the smirk was making Darcy want to hit someone. “Whatever did I do to you? How can I live with myself, knowing that one pathetic mortal who wound up among the Gods by pure accident is offended?”

“You tried to enslave my entire race, and you bent my friend’s mind like it was play-doh. All so your brother would come fetch you.”

He freezes, and Darcy grins. She’s not as dumb as anyone thinks she is, just cause she can’t build a portal-jumping-thingymajig like Jane can. Jane still needed Darcy to explain the results on election night. She had all the states predicted to a T once Illinois was called, except for Colorado, which was always a bit of a wildcard.

Darcy’s no scientist, but she’s a fucking A-grade poli-sci student, and she’s been hanging with Pepper Potts and Phil Coulson and Maria Hill lately, and she can spot a shitty battle plan a mile off.

“Excuse me?” he snarls, at last.

“You heard me. You assembled the world’s greatest heroes in one place, pissed them all off, and then went swaggering around declaring where you were in the showiest way possible. Either you’re just fucking _tacky_ , dude, or you didn’t want to win.”

“I would have ruled your petty little realm without mercy,” he hisses back, but it’s too desperate to be believable. “You would have all knelt before me, and submitted before I ripped out your spines.”

“Woah, you can cool it with the BDSM gore there man, okay,” she holds up her hands. “I’m only telling the truth and you know it.”

“I’d leave now, if I were you,” he snaps. She doesn’t shift.

“Or what? You’ll kill me with your pointy gold Phallic Symbol Of Doom?” she looks around a bit theatrically, and stage-whispers “I hate to break it to you, but they took it away. Even if they didn’t that gold screen thing looks like something Fury’d sell his soul for. So good luck.”

She checks her phone out of habit, and to prove how unafraid she is of him. He’s a big scary, yeah, but he’s trapped behind magic gold mesh and they’re surrounded by armed guards. So she’s pretty set for protection, to be quite honest.

She’s been gone half an hour. “Shit,” she mutters, wishing she could text Jane that she’s okay. “Well this’s been fun, but I gotta run. Hopefully I’ll never see you again.”

He bows, curtly, and she thinks it’s a shame he’s evil, really: he’s kinda cute and snarky and dangerous, all great qualities in a non-psychopath.

She still breathes a long sigh of relief when she’s out of his sight, and the weight of his presence lifts. 

\---

The fourth time it happens, he’s counting on it.

Loki knows for fact that Thor will not return to Midgard anytime soon: there’re three separate wars currently raging in three separate realms, and where there is an interesting war Loki’s hot-headed brother can usually be found. Jane Foster has been notified at least, this time, apparently. The lack of a weeping, flannel-clad scientist on the sofa upon which Loki has seated himself would indicate that she is at least mobile, this time.

He has no quarrel with Jane Foster, in fact. She seemed a perfectly reasonable young mortal, in the short time he spent with her, and even his dislike of Thor has dimmed a little since his release from captivity. While kidnapping Jane and holding her to ransom would serve as a nice act of petty revenge, it would also be somewhat cliché, and entirely pointless. He has no intention of making the same mistake a third time: this time, he will not reveal himself until it is too late for anyone to stand in his way.

Which, of course, goes nowhere at all in explaining his presence here, on Jane Foster’s couch, at two in the morning.

He’s waiting for someone. Someone he knows is staying here, until she can return home to whatever Midgardian nation she calls home; someone who holds some answers he is rather interested in obtaining.

He has created an illusion between himself and the door of the room as he found it, sans God of Mischief with his booted feet on the cheap wooden coffee table. If he is right – and Loki, son of two worlds, who has died twice and lived both times, who has seen the edge of the universe and beyond and survived it all is never wrong – then only the woman he wishes to speak to will be able to see him.

He has no idea why one petty little Midgardian woman should be able to falter his illusions, when his own family - his own _mother_ , who taught him these tricks in the first place, who had known him better than anyone – could not. But he intends to find out why.

The key turns in the lock bare moments after he has made himself comfortable, and Darcy does not look up from her fiddling with that curious silver and black square in her hands as she locks the door behind her, and starts to disrobe. She removes her outer cowl and her shoes, before switching on a light and turning to the room.

For a moment, it is clear that his illusion holds, and he wonders momentarily if he has made a miscalculation, and perhaps in the dark and the irregularities of Midgardian records come to the wrong home

Then she breathes, “Ho-ly,” and blinks, shaking her head, those dark curls that always appear so artfully tumbled and careless shifting with every small movement. “How the- the _fuck_?”

“Good evening, Miss Lewis,” he inclines his head, enjoying her naked shock immensely. “How lovely to see you again. Truly, Midgardian garb does suit you far better than the robes of our last meeting.” He grins, slowly, lasciviously, making her take a step back, “Very… fitted. Flattering.”

“You’re dead,” she says, flatly, as she pockets that rectangle of hers and kicks her shoes away. Her hand slips into her other pocket, and draws out another rectangle, larger and perhaps heavier than the last, with a recognisable notch on the end. The infamous Taser, he presumes, the one which felled Thor within moments upon his first, inauspicious landing in this realm. “Thor said you were dead. But you’re here and all breathy and smirky and oh my god get your feet off the coffee table, Jane’ll kill me!”

He inclines his head again, and removes his feet from the table, standing in one fluid motion and turning on his heels to face her. “Better?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “Can we speak as civilised people now?”

“I can talk like a civilised person, I don’t know about you.” She takes a step back; he takes a step forward. Delightful. “I mean, do you even count as a person? How many innocent people do you have to kill before they take your person card away, anyway?”

“I’m a Frost Giant, technically,” he shrugs, “and raised in Asgard. The best… or perhaps, the worst, of both worlds, as they say. “Perhaps my ‘card’ was lost in transit?”

“Are you trying to be funny?” she asks, “Because you’re not. Funny, that is. You’re meant to be dead and oh my god, take one more step toward me ice boy and I swear to all the Gods who aren’t you including your brother that I’ll end you.”

He stops, in deference to her wishes, but does not step backwards either. Her back is to the wall, her colour high, but she appears more angered than scared. Interesting. All logic would indicate flight, at this point, and yet it appears that ‘flight’ is the only setting Darcy Lewis has.

“Hm, interesting,” he cocks his head to one side, eyeing the Taser. “You would aim that… weapon at me, I am certain, and attempt to incapacitate me as you did my brother a year ago. You mistake me for my brother once again, however: I could merely be an illusion, my true self hidden in another room nearby. I could be right behind you, waiting to attack while I distract you here. You could shoot your weapon, and have it fall through thin air.”

“You’re real,” she says, confidently, her chin high and defiant. “We’ve already proven your illusions don’t work on me, asshole. I saw it flicker when I walked in.”

She takes a brave step forward, and she’s more than a head shorter than him but honestly, with those fires flashing in her eyes he’s sure she hasn’t even noticed. How angry must she be, to cast aside her personal safety thus? Or simply how utterly trusting of that Taser to save her, should she need it?

“What are you, then?” he asks her, calmly.

“Aside from a severely pissed off mortal who is, by the way, armed? Political science major, fourth year on sabbatical from Ohio State. Lab assistant. Unofficial S.H.I.E.L.D techie.”

“But what more than that?” he presses, “The first creature in nine realms to effortlessly see through my illusions, what are you that allows you that power?”

“Dude if you don’t stop with the growly interrogation act I’m calling the cops.”

He quirks an eyebrow, laughs, “You were blind, then, to the last time your human authorities attempted to detain me?”

“Nope,” she smacks her lips, cheerfully, but it’s forced. She’s angry, scared perhaps, and it’s all a defence so that he won’t see. And, oddly, to that of all things Loki can relate. “But I say that the dude who tried to turn New York into a junkyard is camped out in my boss’s apartment, then some cameras’re coming. Fast. And then there’s S.H.I.E.L.D, who have an Iron Man and a Hulk, in case you forgot that, who’re still kind of pissed that you’re not worm food. And if all of that’s not enough, one glimpse of you on TV and Jane calls in her boyfriend. His hammer’s kinda heavy, isn’t it? It’d probably hurt to take that to the jaw.”

“Your threatening me is rather adorable, all things considered,” he smirks. “But I could be gone in an instant.”

“You risked a lot to come here and threaten _me_ , asshole,” she replies. “And if I tell Jane I saw you, she’ll tell Thor. And the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D, I guess, and everyone else who hates your frosty guts.”

“You have no proof.”

“And you’re here for a reason,” she narrows her eyes, “Cause we established last time that you’re not tacky. Or maybe you’re just super-tacky, and too much of a coward to go gloat at anyone who actually matters.”

“On the contrary, it is you who matters, Miss Lewis.”

“Hey it’s Darcy unless you’re my admissions tutor or the bank,” she shoots back. “You don’t see me curtseying to you and saying ‘My Lord’.”

He looks her up and down again, and this time not as much out of intimidation as simple desire. She has a very different shape than most of the women of Asgard. Asgardian women are tall, slender, built for battle or for statuesque beauty, many for both, and all for strength. Darcy Lewis is shorter, with more definite curve to her hips and bust than any woman Loki laid eyes upon at home. A whole different kind of strength rests there, strength that comes from the tongue and the eyes and the heart, more than muscle or the strategic mind. Red lips, dark curls. Those he remembers, of course, but taken as a part of the whole they gain a new meaning, a new impact.

“Dude, my eyes are up here,” she snaps, and he brings his gaze reluctantly back to hers at her command. She is right, of course: Loki is a renegade now, yes, a criminal and a killer, but he is not impolite. Staring at a woman’s chest without permission is the height of bad manners, no matter how comely that chest might be.

“Indeed, I had noticed,” he retorts, dryly, “I was simply ruminating upon the fact that I have never once asked for a curtsey. I far prefer those beneath me to rest upon their knees until given the permission to stand.”

“You want me on my knees, you buy me dinner first,” Darcy snorts back, sarcastically. “Which’d be kinda impossible in your case, considering the whole fake-death thing. That was an illusion too, yeah? You let Thor find a corpse someplace dressed up to look like you? Sicko.”

“Darcy, I would ask that you spend a lifetime in another’s shadow, discover that your lineage and all subsequent pride was fraudulent, withstand months of endless torture and then lose a parent while you rot in captivity in your own kingdom, before you begin with the petty name calling.”

“Yeah, and you can go to the house of every guy you killed and apologise before you can ask for an apology from me.”

“Do your combatants ever apologise?” he asks, curiously. “Does every soldier, every police officer, every king or politician go to the home of every dead man, cap in hand?”

“When they start wars it’s cause of something real like oil or money or making a mistake ten years ago they wanna cover up. They don’t kill hundreds of people just to hitch a ride home.”

“They do so to conquer, to gain power, do they not?” he raises an eyebrow, “We are the same, I merely had another species come to help out.”

“You never wanted to conquer, so you can shut the fuck up with that,” she rolls her eyes at him, this curvy little mortal woman, her Taser pointed squarely at his chest, which now seems abnormally close to hers. He is looming over her, bearing down, but her eyes flash as she holds her ground. “If you’d wanted to take over, you’d have been sneaky about it. Used those illusions of yours or some shit like that, I don’t know. Taken out the Avengers one by one, and stayed at a distance. Not done Fury’s job for him by defeating yourself.”

“Oh really, and how many worlds have you conquered?”

“Thor told me how you did it last time, when you kicked him out of Asgard and planted your skinny, ice-cold ass down on his dad’s throne. And I’m a political science major remember? Just cause I have my headphones in most of the time and don’t get Jane’s diagrams doesn’t mean I’m an idiot, asshole.”

“What are you?” he hisses, more angry and more hurt and more everything than he has been in such a long time. Something about this mortal raises his hackles and makes his cold blood boil in his veins, and his eyes flick between those hard eyes and those soft red lips and nothing, nothing makes any sense at all. Even Thor, even Loki himself, perhaps, hadn’t seen through that ploy. How in the name of Odin did Darcy Lewis do it?

“I’m the girl no one’s watching, okay?” she’s so close now, so close he can almost feel it, the warmth of her on the icy surface of his skin. “I’m the lab assistant from Ohio who had you figured out the moment I saw you in New York, fighting a losing battle and fucking _smiling_. You wanna know how I can see through your illusions, Loki? Cause I can see you. I can see a scared, broken, fucked-up little kid who still wants his daddy and his big brother’s approval, after all this time. I can see a boy so desperate to get home he killed half of Manhattan to call a cab. And y’know what? I can get that. I’ve been there, man. I didn’t kill anyone, obviously, but I’ve been lost, and in the end I wound up in New Mexico, tracking something I didn’t understand, Rose bridges and UFOs and wormholes and shit, and here we are.” 

His lips crash down on hers before he has a chance to think, and her squeal of surprise is lost in the clatter when her Taser hits the floor, and her hands come to clutch at his shoulders, pulling him closer as he kisses her harder, faster, her lips burning and branding his as he bites at them, forcing her mouth open so he can slip his tongue inside and taste her.

Her sounds turn from surprise to pleasure at that, and she kisses him back just as hard, pulling him down to her with surprising strength, her hand now tangled in his long black hair.

\---

The fifth time, it breaks Darcy's heart a little bit.

Darcy’s got no freaking clue, actually, why Loki’s magic gets all messed up around her. All that stuff about perception and empathy was complete bullshit: how the fuck is she supposed to know why his Asgard mojo’s thrown off when she’s around?

Although, Thor’s Asgardian and he’s pretty much a normal guy if you take out the hella strength and the magical rippling biceps. And the hammer of course, can’t forget that. Human guys think with their dicks, right? And Loki’s moved now from her mouth to her jaw and mother of _God_ – not Loki and Thor’s mother, a different mother, like the Virgin Mary, someone holy who Steve’d pray to – if he uses his teeth one more time she’s going to lose her mind.

His mouth his colder than she expected, although with the whole Big Blue Frost Giant shtick going on she probably should have thought of that. It’s not icy, just… cool and wet and oh, oh, kissing again, with a little bit of teeth just along her throat, and her hands tighten in the black mane of his hair. It’s soft, like unnaturally soft, but also kind of strong, and she idly wonders what kind of product they have in Asgardian jail cells before he sucks hard on her pulse point, and her thoughts become an embarrassing groaning noise. The same noise that then comes out of her mouth.

“Where the hell did you learn to do that?” she gasps, and he snickers. The vibrations make her bones all liquidy.

“Been around a while, love,” he purrs, and then sucks again, a little lower, “and Thor didn’t get all the maidens.”

“I’m no maiden,” she growls, hauling him from her neck by his hair and slamming her mouth back against his. His little grunt of surprise is the best reward, and she plunders his mouth with the same enthusiasm he gave her, licking and biting at his lips until he moans. 

She walks forward, one hand in his hair and the other at the lapel of his weirdly simple robe, until he’s backed against the couch and she has the room to return his kisses in kind. His skin is cold, too, like his lips, and he gasps as she licks the hollow of his throat. She wonders if she feels really hot to him, if she’s burning him. She hopes so. If she is going to fuck Loki, she wants to hurt him a bit while she does.

She bites down hard, and his skin isn’t soft like a human guy’s would be but it’s alright, because her teeth still leave an impression and he still whimpers, and really no one is going to see a mark anyway. It’s not as if he’s going to walk out of here onto the street, looking like himself with her marks all over him.

And they will be all over him. There’s no way in hell she’s passing up that opportunity.

“Clearly not,” he gasps, and suddenly, all at once, she’s on her back on the couch, and he’s looming over her. Her head rolls around, her eyes darting and startled.

“Wow that was fast,” she mutters, “or did I just black out?”

He’s already biting at her neck again, kissing his way up to her earlobe and tugging on it with his teeth. “Oh, no love, the blacking out comes later.”

“That’s some superiority complex you have there, buster,” she mutters, and takes him by surprise when she wraps her legs around his hips from beneath him, and presses up against the distinct bulge in his pants. He stiffens, then, and moans. “I told you, I’m not some swooning maiden you can use your crazy Asgard mojo on and send spinning.”

“Hm, perhaps you’re right,” he concedes, but she can hear and fucking feel the smirk in his words, and oh hell where is that hand going?

It settles down between her lower stomach and the waistband of her jeans, right between her hips. Her skin is really damn hot down there, and moreso the lower it goes, and his hand is so cold she jumps and shivers. “You live in an icebox or what?” she gasps.

“Frost Giant,” he reminds again, “Johtenheim is always cold, no matter the time of year. One must adapt.”

“Yeah well I’m human thanks, so maybe next time a few hours in a sunbed or something to warm you up first?”

“Next time?” he quirks one of those goddamn eyebrows at her, and his hand slides a little lower, his fingertips under her panties now and god _damnit_ getting to third with an admittedly fucking gorgeous man-shaped popsicle shouldn’t feel this good. She wonders why they’ve bypassed second. Those cold fingers of his’d feel fan-fucking-tastic against her breasts, she thinks.

“Next time you decide to fuck a human,” she stipulates, although she honestly wouldn’t mind if that human happened to be her again. She’s wondering if she should move someplace colder, like Canada or Norway or somewhere, where guys always have cold fingers. She’s rapidly getting a kink, and it’s not going to be easy to fill it when he’s gone back off to his fake-death hideout.

“Ah,” he nods, and his hand dips even lower, to tease at her folds. She goes stiff, her back arching, hips pressing against those cold, teasing fingers. “Humans are sensitive, aren’t they?” he muses, and presses a little deeper, thumb on her clit, cold 

“Why did you come here?” she asks, unsure where the question came from but knowing it’s her only hold on reality at this point.

“To find out what you are,” he replies, softly, and oh fuck those fingers have gone even lower and are teasing at her entrance, and she throws her head back, squirming impatiently against him. He’s so going to pay for this. When she can find her knees again, he’s paying for this.

“I told you,” she argues, and he slides a finger inside with a toothy grin, naked enjoyment of her all over his face. “I’m as normal as they come.”

“They overlook you,” he presses, and she’d laugh at her own pun if she could because yep, there goes another finger, and they’re icy and curling inside her and she’s moaning out loud, bucking and writhing against his hand, as his thumb rests on her clit, not moving, just providing something to rub against. The bastard stays that way for a good few seconds, letting her rut against his hand while he just sits there, knuckle-deep inside her, those intense green eyes fixed on her face. “But you don’t return the favour.”

“Hey, Jane keeps – oh - me around for a – ah, oh God – a reason!” he’s started moving his hand, thrusting his fingers in and out of her, fucking her on his hand, and she has no more words, just cold and hot and in and out, and the pleasure roaring through her, and she cranes up and kisses him as he adds a third finger, and twists, and finds a place that makes the world shatter. She squirms beneath him, shuddering and moaning, her head thrown back as he lavishes her neck with biting kisses as she rides out a pretty damn sudden and intense orgasm.  
The bastard waits for her to meet his eyes again, before bringing his hand to his lips and fucking hell, sucking them clean. She’d thought guys only did that in porno movies and fanfiction, but there he was, the God of Mischief looking all dishevelled and debauched and cleaning her off his fingers.

“Would you kneel for me now, Darcy Lewis?” he asks, when he finishes. She grins, but shakes her head.

“I don’t think me kneeling’d mean what you think it’d mean,” she says, grinning at her own joke as she watches it go sailing over his head. “I’m not bowing to you, Loki.”

“But arching and moaning for me, that’s another matter,” he teases, a barb concealed in his soft tone. He thinks he can humiliate her, the only guy in the goddamn universe who didn’t get the ‘Darcy has no shame’ memo.

“Hey, you decided to stick your hand into me,” she shrugs, “so thanks for that. I’m good, dude, I’m set: you want seeing to you’ll have to ask nicely.”

She glances down pointedly to the growing bulge in his pants, and raises her eyebrows. “You having a bit of a problem down there, huh?”

“A problem easily solved, thank you,” he says, almost primly. She’s not impressed.

“Then go solve it,” she challenges. “Use your God mojo and get out of here.”

“You wish me gone?”

“I wanna sleep,” she admits, “coffee’s wearing off. I mean, anyone else I’d happily return that mind-blowing favour, but no one else’s as fucking arrogant as you are. So you?” she reaches a hand down between them and squeezes his cock, hard, “You gotta say please.” 

He stares at her, hard, trying to force her to back down. Darcy’s a grandmaster of staring competitions, though, and it’d he hard for him anyway considering how she’s grinding the heel of her hand against his iron-hard cock through his pants, and after a really, really long minute, he runs a hand through his rumpled hair and mutters something.

“What was that?”

“I said please,” he hisses, “ _please_.”

She grins, victorious, and moves her hand up and down again, between his waistband and his skin. He’s not wearing any underwear, she realises quickly, and so there’re no more barriers to her wrapping her hand around his cool shaft – it’s thicker and longer than she was expecting, but she doesn’t say anything cause fuck knows he doesn’t need his ego stroking any more than it is already – and tugging. It’s probably not the best handjob she’s ever given, at an awkward angle splayed out on Jane’s couch, with him braced over her and his robe pants kinda getting in the way, but she does her best, and kisses him again and again as she does. She can’t get enough of his mouth, cold and wet and tender but also hard and powerful, everything she never knew she wanted from a kiss. 

She wonders if he’d be too cold to touch, if he went blue like Thor says he did that one time. That’d be an experience.

He’s groaning and hissing into their kisses, now, something about burning and fires and a whole lot of other stuff that she doesn’t understand and is probably another language. She keeps pumping him, biting at his throat and enjoying the smooth slide of his hard, cold flesh against her palm, and the utter power she has over him, here and now, the enemy of the whole world, the big strong God of Mischief and she has him panting and groaning, desperate for her touch.

She could do him some serious damage, she thinks, and he knows that. That he wants this so badly that he’d risk her deciding to mutilate him gives her a heady rush of power, and she grips him harder, twists her hand while she works his cock, trying to reward him for that. He’d kinda broken her brain before, after all, and turnabout is fair play.

He groans, long and low in his throat, and stiffens all over. Then it’s over, and he’s panting her name into her neck and coming all over the inside of his pants and her hand, and for some reason she’s petting his hair, as if to comfort him.

For a moment there’s a very soft, tender silence around them both, as he clutches her against him, and she holds him close. He’s shaking all over, she realises, and so is she. His skin is so cold and she’s burning up, and oh god, it’s too much, it can’t last. The moment shatters and he pulls away, but she’s learned from the best and she hauls him down at the last moment to kiss him, before he goes.

“Do you still wish to never see me again, Darcy?” he asks, a teasing question masking sincerity that makes her legs tremble.

“That depends on how many people you vaporise in the meantime,” she quips back, sharply. “I could always tell Jane or Thor you’re still alive, if you fuck it up.”

He inclines his head, that fucking infuriatingly smug smile still playing on his lips, and leans in close. “You could,” he concedes, “but you’ve seen what happens to those who displease me, Darcy Lewis. I’d keep silent about this, were I you… savour your life and your sanity, for they are privileges, not rights.” He kisses her, as if she isn’t trembling, as if he didn’t just threaten her like a total creep. She nods. For the first time in her life, Darcy is struck speechless, so all she can do is nod.

He laughs at her, mockingly, and stands. She sees a wavering shimmer surround him as he closes his eyes, and she thinks the rest of the world will likely see a normal guy in a normal suit go walking out into the street. No one else will see Loki, the God of Mischief, with cum staining his pants from where a little mortal girl sent him reeling, and his hair mussed from her hands.


End file.
